Ship of Dreams
by Veringue
Summary: S1 AU. The ship of dreams, they called it, the Titanic, the greatest liner. Unsinkable. The Crawley family sails first-class across the ocean, and Lady Mary, engaged, is one of them. Matthew seeks to make his fortune in the new world. And then they meet.
1. White Star Dock

_Yay! A new story! And so you might ask, why is Veringue writing more and more stories while she hasn't even finished her old ones? Well, that's because she's a bit of a fidgety person._

_Anyway, never mind that. The Titanic will only have its 100th anniversary once, so, in memory of that date, I have written this Series 1 AU in which Mary is a troubled young woman engaged to Patrick and sailing the ship of dreams with her sisters and parents. And Matthew is a jolly young bachelor off to New York to do nice little businessy things, while also taking his mum along for no apparent reason other than that I don't want him to be on his own._

_All right, well, I do hope you enjoy this first installment, and, as I've mentioned, I'm not very persistent with my stories, and reviews do make me so very happy! So if you'd review, just to tell me if you like it, to provide a comment or anything at all (even just one word) I'd be immensely grateful and will give you very big internet smiles!_

_Also, isn't it just nice to know you've made a person happy? Yes, it is! And that's why I hope I can make all of you happy with this new story!_

_Thanks so much for reading, lovelies!_

* * *

_10 April, 1912_

In front of him the ship loomed large and imposing, her bow bucking forcefully, arrogantly into the waves, her stern rising and falling gently with the sea. Tied to the dock as she was, she seemed almost like a great creature asleep, just waiting to be awoken, to perform her duty, to act as his ticket over the ocean, taking him to a new land, a new world, a new future, a new life. Unsinkable. That's what they said. Unsinkable.

All over his skin, he could feel his hairs rise at the thought of where he was going, and what would be taking him there.

Matthew took a deep breath and in awe gazed at the wondrous ship. To walk the entire length of it to see the front was in itself already a little trip that took him a few minutes, but it was a walk definitely worth the while, for only from that perspective could he see its name printed firmly, boldly on the black casing: TITANIC.

Again, he shuddered as he looked up. There was no denying that this was the opportunity of a lifetime. You could feel it everywhere, in every person, in every vein, the sense of something crackling, some sort of suspense hanging the air. Soon, this ship would sail, taking him and many others to an unknown, far-away destination, to a new place and a new world.

It was time for something new, something spectacular.

"Oh, Matthew! There you are! All this dashing about and I thought I'd lost you already!" His mother came up beside him, her bag in hand, her grey hair tossing in the wind.

He smiled, but not in her direction. He'd barely even heard what she'd said. "God, just look at it, mother."

Isobel Crawley linked her arm with that of her son's and raised her eyes to the ship. "It is quite something, isn't it?"

Matthew clamped his suitcase a bit tighter, his knuckles turning white, and raised himself up to his full height. The sea salt bit at his skin, but he hardly felt it. There was nothing to stop him anymore, to stop _them. _Here she was, the Titanic, and ahead lay a wide spread of continent unknown – freedom.

"The ship of dreams," he said.

* * *

"I don't see why we had to stay with Aunt Rosamund for three days in advance," Edith couldn't help but remark as she rested her hand on her chin and looked out of the window at the passing landscape, thoroughly bored.

Her father opened his mouth to reply but Edith didn't give him the chance. "Yes, I know it's a long trip, father, but such torture is hardly necessary. Besides, we go to London often and Southampton is really a stone's throw from the city."

Robert sighed softly, but, as he was really not in the mood to argue, he contained himself. "We won't be back for a while, Edith, and Rosamund deserves to see you three off."

Edith sat up and grabbed her book from the table, opening it with force. "And I don't see what I've ever done to deserve such torture," she muttered.

Sybil, sitting across from her sister, gently reached out and turned over the book in Edith's hands, for the elder girl, in her frenzy, had started to read it upside down.

Lord Grantham opened his mouth to make some further remark but Cora laid her hand gently on his arm. "Oh, leave them, darling," she said soothingly. "They're just exhausted."

And they had a right to be so. The family had risen very early that morning to leave from 5 Eaton Place and embark on the last train that would take them to the famous White Star Dock in Southampton, where their impressive journey would begin and from whence they would proceed to remain at sea for two weeks, before reaching New York, if everything went according to plan.

Mary's mind was full of what lay ahead as she gazed outside without truly seeing anything. Patrick, who was beside her, had laid his hand over hers and for once she made no move to pull away. In fact, before she knew what was overcoming her, she'd leaned her head against his shoulder and found her eyelids drooping as she was lulled into sleep by the rocking of the train, vague images of magical ships and roaring waves dominating her mind.

Concernedly, Patrick carefully passed a hand along her brow, whispering, "Mary darling, are you quiet well?"

This instantly woke her, such a light-sleeper was she that she shot bolt upright, stared at her fiancé for a moment in an affronted fashion, before relaxing and then casually pulling her hand away from his. "Yes, quiet all right, thank you." With these words, she turned back to the window and fixed her eyes on some invisible and uninteresting point in the distance, fearing that she'd perhaps led him on a false trail of genuine affection.

Sighing mutely, Patrick Crawley, who, together with Mary, was in the neighboring seat to the rest of the family, leaned across to Edith and gently enquired what she was reading.

* * *

The Crawley family reached the White Star Dock within the hour. They all piled out onto the platform and were joined speedily by their maids and valets who had travelled third-class. Chatters of excitement followed and even Mary, who generally managed to remain relatively cold and neutral, could feel her heart flutter more and more with every step she took towards the water, to where the Titanic lay.

They spotted the ship already much before they'd reached it, her funnels sticking up high above the buildings, grey traces of steam trailing from them into the clear blue sky as her engines were warmed up. Beside her, on the dock, people swarmed, saying their last farewells, making their way towards the bridge, or simply standing, gawking at the immensity of the liner.

And Mary, for once, found herself amongst the commoners, her mouth half-open, her eyes glittering, her hair in a whirl about her face, staring up at the Titanic in all her glory.

"Well, that's certainly not something you see every day," Lord Grantham murmured to himself.

"My God, it's enormous!" Sybil exclaimed. "Gosh, I can't wait to go aboard, Papa! I've read so much about the decks and the swimming pool and the architecture and…" Her voice trailed off as she realized that no one was really listening and, a bit gloomily, she cast her eyes back to the boat.

Mary, for want of some privacy, managed to separate herself from the group without being noticed by Patrick or anyone else for that matter. Holding onto her crimson hat with one hand, she proceeded to make her way towards the stern of the ship, jutting out like a cliff over the raging ocean. From this position only could she see the boat's name like she'd imagined it. Seven letters the color of the foam of the sea, showing her the name that had been in every paper, every letter, and on every tongue for the past year. It was the biggest thing of the century, they said. Unsinkable.

"The Titanic," she whispered. It tasted like salt on her lips.

The moment didn't last long however before someone laid their hand on her shoulder. It was Patrick.

"You're not afraid of being seasick, are you, my dear?" he asked.

It was quite a serious enquiry, yet a chuckle escaped Mary's mouth, at which Patrick looked rather offended. She glanced at his face and, with a roll of the eyes, replied, "Really, Patrick, do you think me so weak and pitiful?"

Carefully, he removed his hand from her shoulder again. "I simply wanted to make sure you were all right."

Mary had to suppress another eye roll. "I appreciate your concern, but there truly is no need for it. I'm perfectly fine."

"As you wish," he said, as though Mary was capable of defining her own state of health, which she most probably was – the feisty eldest Crawley daughter.

They stood for a few minutes in silence before Patrick ventured to remark, "Do you think it's truly unsinkable?"

"Anything's unsinkable once you make it to be," Mary replied drily. Tearing her eyes away from the Titanic she turned to watch the people going aboard, line after line of businessmen, little children, women carrying bags, everyone bustling with excitement – the crowd which obscured her family from her sight.

They still had to wait a bit as second-class boarded before they could go on, but for once Mary didn't mind. She was quite enjoying the sight from here, and the next two weeks would be spent on the ship anyway. There was no rush.

Her brown eyes scanned the crowd, observing the people one by one, until they lingered on a young man in a grey suit. His hair seemed golden in the sunlight, and somehow she found herself looking after him for a while longer until Patrick roused her from her thoughts.

"Shall we go rejoin the others?" he asked.

Pursing her lips, Mary said absent-mindedly, "You go on, I'm coming."

"But we might lose each–"

"I'm coming," she repeated, her eyes on the ship. "I'll find my way back."

He acquiesced and, nodding, turned to go. Yet just before he left her, he stopped one more time. "One last thing, Mary. What did you mean when you said that anything was unsinkable once you made it so?"

Mary didn't look at him as she answered. "That anything can be anything as long as enough people are convinced of it." While she spoke, her eyes continued to explore the ship, drifting from post to post and door to door, observing every shining window and every plate of raw steel.

"Ah yes, of course," said Patrick, who still didn't quite understand. But sensing that Mary, as usual, did not welcome his company, he left it at that, and, rejoining the family, went to stand by Edith's side.

* * *

"Is this it?" Matthew asked of his mother as they made their way through another whitewashed hallway lined with second-class cabins and stopped at one of the doors. He placed his hand upon the knob.

Isobel glanced at the tickets again and nodded. "It seems so."

On that note they entered the room, which was clean and comfortable but small. There was a main bedroom, with two separate beds, and an adjoining bathroom, but what interested Matthew most was the porthole. Yet this ultimately proved to be a bit of a disappointment. It wasn't on the side of the dock anyway, so, for the moment, the view was only sea, and Matthew assumed it would be much of the same for a while longer.

Then an idea struck him. Without bothering to unpack his bag, he made his way to the door again, walking with long strides, and, in opening it, called, "I'm going to the deck, mother, to see the land before we leave!"

Isobel hardly had the chance to utter a word before her son was gone again and she was left alone, unfolding their clothes and shaking her head to herself.

Matthew, a free spirit, weightless and without a care in the world, made his way swiftly through all the people seeking their cabins, all the families bustling with bags, and excused himself multiple times as he maneuvered up to the higher parts of the ship.

A few minutes later he felt the wind in his face again and, up on deck, clutched at the railing as he made his way to the side overlooking the dock. It was swamped with people, calling, waving, tossing up their hats, shouting names, laughing – come to see the Titanic depart on her first voyage, and her last.

Matthew was completely in his element. He felt young again and utterly free-spirited as he sighed contentedly and leaned against the railing, holding on tightly, yet taking no fear in looking over the side.

At that moment the ship made a louder sound, a rumbling puff, and Matthew instantly thought of the drowsy creature again, now roused from its sleep, and groaning, growling a low and deep growl, eager to set off and get the work done. Straightening up, Matthew Crawley watched how the massive chains keeping the boat prisoner were pulled in and felt how the deck began to shudder warmly beneath him.

The Titanic roared, a fierce yet loyal and undefeatable creature. She was geared up more, pushed to the extreme, and forced to clash against the waves. The wind beat at Matthew's face again, his hair battered about his eyes, but then, within a moment, they were moving, the ship, the huge liner was sailing forward. For a moment, the wind picked up again, and he smelled something, fresh paint, coal, but also something else…a sweet perfume.

He didn't know why, but he turned his head to look across the deck just in time to see a woman with a crimson hat disappear down the stairs, her hand clasping at her dress as she walked.

Within moments, however, his eyes were back on the dock, from which the ship was now pulling away and which lay so far below him that he felt as though he were the king of the world, the maker of dreams, God himself. Matthew took in a deep breath, the shared breath of this boat, this boat that could now make so many things come true.

Below, a loud cry had erupted from the people staying behind, and they started to wave and shout more enthusiastically than ever. Matthew didn't wave back. He wasn't like that, but this once it did take all of his self-control to stop himself from lifting his hand. He had to remind himself that this was a business trip, after all. Not a pleasure voyage.

Still, the least he could do was whisper, and so he whispered, "Good-bye England," as the Titanic sailed away into deeper waters, and Matthew's words were lost in the wind.


	2. A Promenade

_Hello lovelies! So so sorry for the long wait! Wow, I really would not have been here again if it were not for all the wonderful reviews I got on the last chapter! You are all absolute darlings! Thank you so, so much! As much as I love Downton and the Titanic I am and always will be a lazy bum, so this is all thanks to you, really._

_I wanted to publish a chapter last week, I really did, but school swamped me and although I'm on vacation now, I'm in New York so it's not like I'm on the computer much either. But I'll try to keep it up from now on. I really will. But I can't promise anything I'm sorry, but if you all hang in there and bear with me, I will not leave this, and we will all sink together! Sorry, bit too enthusiastic there._

_Anyway, you'll see a new character has arrived this chapter. I simply couldn't do without her, so I hope the time skips aren't too confusing. Also, hopefully, there aren't too many historical/layout inaccuracies. I'm doing best, and I don't have a beta or anything so, sorry in advance for any mistakes you may stumble across!_

_Enjoy, and, please, trust me, reviews mean the world to me! I cry a little inside every time I receive one._

* * *

_10 April, 1912_

"Oh for heaven's sake, Sullivan, do quicken that short-legged pace of yours. At this rate we might as well swim across that dreadful pond," the Dowager Countess of Grantham croaked as they stepped out of the train and her young lady's maid immediately crumbled under the weight of three suitcases.

However, the Dowager Countess, no matter how many obstacles or problems stood in her way, would be punctually on time. As much as the Titanic could not possibly sink, the Dowager simply could not arrive a second late. And so, predictably, Violet arrived exactly on time.

"Allow me to escort you, madam–" a lad of the crew started as they hurriedly boarded the ship, Sullivan dragging herself across the bridge.

"Milady," the Dowager corrected sharply, an automatic reaction. After all, no matter the situation, one's title was more important than anything.

"Milady," the crew boy repeated with a little cough, "may I see your tickets? Allow me to escort you to your cabin."

And so, a few minutes later Sullivan was set to unpack all the Dowager's lavish clothing while Violet herself dismissed the crew boy, inspected her sleeping quarters and found that she, oddly enough, was actually quite looking forward to surprising her family in her arrival. Having made sure that the young Sullivan wouldn't set about organizing everything by colour instead of texture she set off again to the reception to enquire after the rooms of her beloved family members. And, coincidentally, she found that they were all on the same deck.

Only just then did the ship start to move, did that large and dangerous creature made of iron and steel start to groan and quiver. With a little cry of alarm the Dowager, who was standing in the middle of the hallway, clutched at a railing and steadied herself between it and her silver-knobbed cane. Immediately, someone came to her aid but Violet hardly listened to the young man's words of reassurance.

"Good Lord! It's quite like Laviathan, awakening from the depths!"

* * *

_It's as though, for this massive beast, the dream is just ending, and the light of dawn blinds its eyes, reflecting off of its bright armour, and it moans and groans, complaining that its long sleep, which is all it has known until now, has come to an end. But for us, for its passengers, riding upon its back, gripping at its scales, feeling its hot breath upon our skin, the dream has only just begun, it has lulled us into sleep._

"Matthew?" Isobel rounded the corner of the bathroom, where she had been busy unpacking the last of their things, folding up the last of their shirts, straightening out a few wrinkles here and there, smoothening out the fabrics until there was not a single flaw to be found in them anymore. Isobel Crawley had always been quite the perfectionist.

"Yes, mother?" Matthew sighed. His line of thought had now been interrupted and he was afraid he might have to wait a while to pick it up again. Reluctantly, he put down his pen, for a moment looked down at the swirls he'd made, so meaningless until you actually concentrated on them, and then picked up the paper pressed with ink. Folding it, he put it away in his notebook.

"Do you know where my hairpin is?" His mother closed the closet doors.

"I believe I last saw it on the bedside table," he replied absent-mindedly, his eyes fixed on the porthole just in front of him. The sea was clear and silent, the water emerald blue. "Shall we go get some tea up on deck?"

"That sounds lovely." And after Isobel had grabbed her purse and Matthew had slipped on his light jacket, they were back where Matthew already felt completely at home, up on deck where the wind fled through their hair and the salt bit at their lips.

Matthew made his way towards the railing and leaned over it, watching how the water far down swirled and curled against the ship. Then, he raised his eyes to the horizon – just a thin strip of blue. They had already left England behind them. "I wonder what it's like there, on the other side of the ocean," he said.

"Not very different from England, I should imagine." Isobel came up beside him. "It's still a country, still inhabited by people."

"But still so far away." Matthew gazed out over the ocean. "Do you think distance makes any difference?"

"Perhaps in mind-set yes, but people remain people, no matter where they are." Her hands sturdily clutching the steel, Isobel Crawley looked out over the ocean, the very same ocean, although it might well have been a completely different one in her eyes. She wasn't as moved by all this glamour and luxury as her son was, or perhaps it was simply that she pushed herself away from it.

In any event, Mrs Crawley was really a more pragmatic, conservative person than Matthew, a person who believed that nothing ought to be made into something more than it was, that nothing ought to be glorified and made to shine so brightly that it blinded the viewer. And, most of all, Isobel Crawley believed that every ship could sink.

"This should do quite well, quite well indeed," Patrick murmured, rubbing his hands as he glanced around to check that none of the luggage was missing. "Daniels, do make sure my evening shirts are not spoilt."

"Yes, sir," the valet replied before he continued with the multiple valises.

"What do you think, darling?" Patrick enquired of his fiancée as he took off his jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair, and went to inspect if any damage had been done to the paintings.

"It's suitable, I suppose." From under the rim of her hat Mary glanced around at the beautiful furniture, the crisp white sheets, the woodcarvings that danced along the tops of the walls... The mirrors were so clean they seemed almost transparent, the lights were golden, the crystal chandeliers shone blindingly, tremblingly in the light, and the carpets muffled all footsteps, ensuring silence and calm. Yes, it was certainly more than suitable.

Lifting her hand, Mary pulled a pin out from her hair and freed her hat, taking it off and putting it down on a nearby table. In doing so she couldn't help but trace her hand along the smooth wood, so polished that it might well have been glass. Shaking her head, she walked through the first room and into the second where the bed and wardrobe were, but had to weave her way through a number of people who were still carrying in artworks and whatnot.

Leaning on the powder table, Mary inspected herself in the mirror and tried to get some sort of control over her hair, which, rather like her mind, had gotten a bit tousled by the wind since they'd just been up on deck to say their farewells to their home country.

Patrick, meanwhile, was freshening up in the bathroom and Mary heard him mutter, "Only one set of towels? Daniels, do be a good man and go fetch some more. This certainly won't do."

"Of course, Mr Crawley." And the door of the room clicked shut behind him.

"Where's Anna, darling?" Patrick called over.

"Helping Edith and Sybil settle in, I should imagine." Mary touched lightly at her dark hair, hoping that, perhaps with some gentle coaxing, she could manage to get it to look somewhat more respectable without her lady's maid's help.

"I believe the others are going to Café Parisien for lunch soon." Water ran as Patrick washed his hands and Mary felt herself becoming only the slightest bit seasick.

"I don't think I'm quite hungry yet," she replied as politely as she could. Luckily, then, there was a gentle knock on the door and they were spared any more stiff formalities.

"Oh that must be Daniels. Come in!" Patrick called, but no one entered.

"I'll get it," Mary said with a sigh. She put down another pin before going to the door. But the person she found out on deck certainly was not the valet Daniels. "Granny!" she exclaimed in pleasant delight before leaning forward to kiss her grandmother on the cheek and give her a tight hug. "How lovely to see you! But I didn't know you had a ticket!"

Violet's eyes sparkled. "Indeed I did not, my dear, but it appears that not only do I have plenty of friends that I do not like, I also have plenty of rather useful ones. Friends in high places I believe it's called? Oh good day, Patrick!" The Dowager leaned forward on her cane to kiss the young man's cheek as he came forward, smiling.

"Cousin Violet! What a nice surprise!" he exclaimed a bit more enthusiastically than was truly necessary.

"Yes, it really is quite something to be here. Rather dreadful ship though isn't it, darling?" she enquired with a glance at her granddaughter. "If only a boat were not necessarily surrounded by so much water, then this would all be a lot less nerve-racking!" The Dowager shuddered involuntarily, glancing down the length of the deck. But Violet had always had a knack for drama, for, truly, walking along the RMS Titanic one would not have thought it was floating in the ocean.

"You must be freezing, Granny! Do come in!" Mary exclaimed, hiding a small smile. "And travelling since morning, I presume! What an ordeal!"

But the Dowager waved these remarks away with a brisk gesture of her elegantly gloved hand. "Oh, I'm perfectly fine! I am not yet so old, I hope, that I cannot stand a little outing. Although I must say that in the entire century that I have lived I've never been on a door-to-door promenade of this sort, but still what awaits me on the other side of the portal never fails to be a pleasant surprise." Raising this same hand of hers, the Dowager briefly brushed it along Mary's cheek and smiled.

"Speaking of promenades, Granny, I was just thinking of embarking on one myself, and the above deck is rather appropriately called Promenade Deck. Thus, would you perhaps like to walk together? I'm sure it would do wonders for my appetite, Patrick," she added in a louder voice towards her fiancé who was in the other room.

"By all means, do go enjoy yourselves, ladies," he replied kindly.

"We needn't be told twice." The Dowager cast a glance at her granddaughter.

Mary smiled. "I'll just collect my things..." she murmured to herself, grabbing her hat, coat and purse.

"Be sure not to get lost," Patrick said teasingly just before they left.

"Not to worry, cousin Patrick," Violet replied instantaneously. "I already know this ship by heart, having taken quite a few detours en route. Although, I do admit, geography is quite another matter when one is living on a cork." And as if to seal her statement, the Dowager Countess punctuated her sentence with a nice stab of her cane.

* * *

Matthew and Isobel hadn't been walking for long before they were approached by a young trainee of the crew, who puffed his chest, tried to appear official, and sized them up for a moment. This moment however ended up being rather a bit longer than the boy had calculated and so Matthew decided it was perhaps wise to speak. "Is something the matter?"

"Well, sir," the lad picked up, "it is just that it seems to me that you are quite on the wrong deck."

"How so?" Matthew enquired with a frown.

"Pardon me for asking, but are you second-class, sir?"

"Well, yes," Matthew answered rather doubtfully. He exchanged a look with his mother but neither of them knew what the trouble might be.

"Well, you see, sir, this is the Promenade Deck, reserved exclusively for those of the first-class, so I'm afraid I have to send you back to the way you came." And he puffed himself up again, looking right proud at having delivered this statement so properly.

Matthew stared at the crew boy in disbelief. "Reserved _exclusively _for the first-class?"

"Quite right, sir," the lad confirmed.

Matthew frowned again, pursed his lips, contemplated saying something more but decided that it would get him nowhere and so, consequently, with a nod towards the boy of the crew, he made a U-turn. When they were far enough away that Matthew was sure they wouldn't be heard, he addressed Isobel.

"Can you believe that, mother? _Reserved _for the first-class? Why is this _reserved _for the first-class? I suppose next we'll be _serving _the first-class. I simply cannot comprehend what _they _have done to be so much more precious than we are!" Matthew had always been quite disgusted by ranks, and now even more so. He couldn't even enjoy a simple view, from the simplest place that suited him, because he hadn't been born dressed in robes of gold.

Isobel smiled to herself, recognizing her late husband's temperament in the words of her son, and patted his arm consolingly. "They pay more, Matthew. That's all there is to it."

In all his flurry, Matthew, whose eyes were normally as keen as they were blue, hadn't noticed the presence of another nearby them, another who caught these words and regarded them with absolute disgust. How dare this mediocre, middle-class man, on the arm of his greying, decaying mother utter such words on ground that was not his? How dare he be so loud-mouthed and vulgar about a class so much more sophisticated and collected than his?

Mary huffed, her back pressed tightly against the wall she'd been leaning against, waiting for her grandmother who had just gone off to get a coat of her own. Her mind made a quick decision and Mary, just as outspoken as Matthew, and of equally sharp personality, couldn't help but speak up. This was her domain after all.

"If you're looking for the exit, it's over there!" she called, elegantly as ever, raising a hand to make a smooth gesture.

Matthew and Isobel froze and as the former laid eyes on the woman who had spoken his heart skipped a beat. The young woman in front of was the perfect image of aristocracy, wealth, and good upbringing, and _he_, he who considered himself so smart and learned and well-read, had made a complete fool of himself, had probably made himself look like some farmer's son in her eyes. Somehow, it bothered him more than it ought have.

Matthew stammered slightly and it took him a moment to find his voice. "Oh, I do apologise, miss–" (Mary winced at this word) "–for disturbing you..."

Mary shook her head and replied sarcastically, "Nothing to apologise to _me_ for." And with that, she turned on her heel, although she had gone but a few feet before he was by her side again and now, as they were a lot closer, he felt that he recognized her scent, that lovely perfume, but couldn't quite place it.

Meanwhile Mary found herself wishing a ridiculous wish. Couldn't his hair possibly have been made any other colour? The goldenness of it was perfectly blinding, and besides, it was completely out of place on a man who wasn't half as innocent as he was blond.

"I do hope I haven't offended you," Matthew said.

"Don't be ridiculous," Mary responded immediately, a light reply that was darkened by the speed by which it was delivered.

"I didn't mean it as a personal remark," he continued, his heart pounding as he caught himself glancing at the pale skin of her neck. He looked away. They certainly didn't have girls like these in Manchester. _Collect yourself, Matthew, _he scolded himself.

"Of course not." As she looked away, she smiled.

Matthew sighed, sensing that this was all just a jest to her. For once, he felt that he was in the presence of someone far superior to him. And he wasn't quite sure he liked the feeling. "I hope you can forgive me."

"Well, I'll do my best."

However before Matthew could quite comprehend what she had said, Lord Grantham and the Dowager came up a stairwell not far ahead of the battling couple. Matthew couldn't help but let out a breath of relief as Robert called out to his daughter. "Ah Mary, there you are! We ran into each other on the way up–" he gestured towards the Dowager and himself. "But who's this young man you're talking to?"

It took everything within her for Mary not to roll her eyes as she replied, "Oh, we only just met."

"I'm a nobody," Matthew provided. After all, that's what Mary had just indirectly said anyway.

"Nonsense!" the older man reproached, smiling, and he reached out his hand to shake Matthew's, giving his daughter a meaningful look. Mary sighed again mutely. She'd really skipped all the formalities with this middle-class boy and now actually found herself having to _introduce_ him - it was embarrassing, really.

"My father, Lord Grantham," she said as collectedly as possible.

Matthew shook the man's hand sturdily and tried to look as minimally confused as he could. He'd never really understood how any of these titles worked, and had never found it necessary to do any research on the topic, so, as a result, he had no idea on what level this "Lord Grantham" stood.

The Dowager, meanwhile, was scrutinizing Matthew's face as though he were an insect she'd kindly offered not to crush, and the expression did not become any less cold as she was introduced and reluctantly offered her hand for a kiss.

"Well, Mary," Robert said, turning to his daughter who had fallen silent. "Aren't you going to tell me this young man's name or is this to be only a one-sided relationship?" He laughed.

Mary bit her tongue in time so as not to voice her thoughts: that there wasn't going to be any relationship at all to speak of, and instead replied, "We haven't really been properly introduced."

"Oh well then–" Lord Grantham started, his smile fading, but Matthew saved him the trouble.

"Matthew Crawley. It's a pleasure, my lord," he said with a little bow of his head. It was all he could manage now, with every bit of him screaming to break loose of this ridiculous etiquette.

No sooner had Matthew mentioned his name or did a look of genuine surprise pass over both Mary and her father's faces. The Dowager cast her eyes down in disgust.

"Why, another Crawley!" Robert exclaimed.

"Another Crawley?" Matthew repeated, utterly confused.

Of course Lord Grantham immediately understood that the young man hadn't the slightest idea what all the fuss was about. Still smiling, he turned to Mary. "My daughter, Lady Mary Crawley."

A shadow passed over Matthew's face, followed by something like a blush. Of all the names in the world...

"You don't think we could be family of some sort, do you, Mr Crawley?" Robert continued, breaking the awkward silence that had ensued.

"I'm from Manchester," Matthew said quietly. _That ought to serve as some sort of explanation, _he thought.

And those words certainly did do the trick. It was even a remark the Dowager didn't hesitate to feed on. "I doubt we have any relatives in Manchester," she said in such a way that her whole phrase suggested some alternative meaning, something more along the lines of: "No one of any importance knows _anyone_ in Manchester."

"Nevertheless," Robert continued, "we can't leave it at this. Do come join us for dinner this evening, young man. It would be a pleasure to have all the Crawleys together!" He laughed, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

The Dowager felt like bringing the point of her cane down on her son's foot. Mary wished she were anywhere but on this very deck. Matthew only managed a small smile. "We would love to attend, my mother and I," he said meekly, glancing over his shoulder to where Isobel stood by the railing, pretending to be both deaf and blind.

"Well then that's settled," Lord Grantham finished, now eager to close off the conversation so that he could briskly escape and perhaps even avoid some of the harsh comments from the side of his mother that undoubtedly would follow. And so, on that note, they bid each other farewell and were off to the Café Parisien.

"Robert, what was all that about?" Violet demanded as soon as they were out of earshot.

"He seems like a solid young man and I'm sure Patrick isn't keen on spending the entire trip with senile old fathers," Robert defended himself, laughing lightly. Mary meanwhile remained entirely mute.

"_Patrick _doesn't need company, and certainly not company of _that _stature! He has his fiancée, what more could he want?" Towards the end of the sentence the Dowager's voice rose to a rather high pitch, not unlike the sound of a teakettle boiling over.

Mary let out a trembling breath. When she'd asked herself earlier whether this day could possibly get any worse it had been a rhetorical question, not a challenge.

"It's fine, mother," Lord Grantham sighed, "I couldn't brush the boy off without an invitation, and if he's as uninteresting as you make him to me I doubt he'll leave much of an imprint on any of us."

"And meanwhile we have to give him lessons in manners! Really, Robert, I came here for a breath of fresh air, not to protect my granddaughters from low-lying men and their improper mothers! Think of the influence this _Matthew Crawley _will have on Sybil and Edith!" The Dowager shuddered and then cocked her head to one side as she proceeded to puncture the deck with her cane. "I blame this faux pas in your upbringing entirely on your father and his radical ideas!" She huffed and turned away again with a sharp movement of her chin.

Robert took advantage of this moment to let a small smile pass over his lips. Then he gestured ahead. "Ah, I believe there's the entrance!"

"Insufferable," Violet muttered under her breath.


	3. Caviar and Crawleys

_A/N: So sorry for the abnormally long wait! I didn't get many reviews on the last chapter, then school took over etc. But suddenly now, with the start of the summer, I got all sorts of ideas for this particular story, and was convinced that I should continue! This chapter is the dinner party and mainly my attempt at having some M/M (hopefully witty) banter. But well, who knows if I succeeded?_

_Haven't been around for a while, but it feels good to be back! I missed you guys, my lovely readers, I really did!_

_Do enjoy - reviews always make my day!_

* * *

_April 10, 1912_

Every member of the second-class on board the Titanic claimed that there was nothing so much more special to first-class that second-class couldn't provide, and for less money at that! But when Matthew and Isobel stepped off the deck, through the doors, and into the entrance hall of the first-class dining room and _A La Carte _restaurant, their suspicions were confirmed: what the second-class guests told each other as a consolation was just that and nothing more, a feeble consolation.

The grand staircase led down into a room of mahogany tables decorated with white and silver and crystal, the glistening chandeliers swinging ever so gently above, the smart waiters with shimmering platters manoeuvring in between to attend to whichever duke or prince or king might request their presence. The women had priceless jewels clinging to their necks, bright socialite smiles imprinted on their faces, and dresses of expensive silks and French designs hugging their bodies. And the men gracefully accompanied and led and greeted their way across the room, all moving as if in time to the music that flowed from the strings of a hidden ensemble.

_Who on earth could need all of this?_ Matthew thought. _And all these people, living their daily lives amongst all these riches, cannot even appreciate the privileges they have! _But could it truly ever be appreciated? Or were they all so pompous by birth that there was no way they could ever see past their own nose?

At the bottom of the steps it seemed a rather large party had gathered and Matthew recognized Lord Grantham as one of the elegantly dressed people. So, with his mother on his arm, he descended, feeling rather nervous.

"Good evening, Matthew!" the Earl said upon recognizing the young man. He reached out and sturdily they shook hands.

"Good evening, Lord Grantham," Matthew replied, trying his best to meet the lord's tone and manner. Being here, he might as well try and play along, although he knew he wasn't very good at that sort of thing.

Matthew's mother, however, seemed to be of a different mind. As Robert smiled and kissed her hand, Isobel couldn't help but jokingly remark, "What a reception committee!" A comment that landed just as the group had gone somewhat silent. _Just perfect_ – Matthew averted his eyes. But after some private glances between the _other _Crawleys were shared, everyone started to chatter again, to his relief.

Yet Matthew didn't have much of a chance to catch his breath. A second later he was already being introduced to Lady Grantham and Lady Edith and Lady Sybil and Mr Patrick and Mr James and so on and so forth. The names swam about his head but the one other Crawley whom he had the privilege of knowing beforehand didn't seem to be present. Matthew was just the slightest bit disappointed – for what reason he did not know.

Patrick smiled as they shook hands. "My fiancée forgot her purse in our room," he provided. "What a coincidence to meet you here, Mr Crawley!" he smoothly switched subjects as only an aristocrat could, laughing warmly.

"Just Matthew, please." He forced a smile. "Or else we may lose our identities by the end of the evening!"

Patrick laughed again – and this time it sounded the slightest bit unnatural. "Indeed, indeed!"

"Your fiancée, you say?" They started to head towards the table and Matthew thought it best to slip the question in as casually as possible whilst Patrick was still distracted.

"Yes, Lady Mary and I are engaged to be married." The heir then turned to someone else and kissed another hand and put on another smile. Soon, amidst all the greetings, Matthew felt quite left out – and they had not even sat down yet.

The situation was no different for Isobel. She had tried a moment ago to make contact with the other elder woman, Matthew had noticed, but the plan had backfired.

"And what shall we call each other?" Isobel approached the so-called Dowager with a smile which the other instantly took for a sneer.

"Well, we can always start with the Dowager Countess and Mrs Crawley," Violet responded sharply. And so that was the end of that.

Matthew had just managed to get next to his mother and was about to enquire of her why in heaven's name they were here again when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar figure descend the stairs and, involuntarily, he looked up. Lady Mary Crawley was like a visage from a dream, her black hair fastened with emeralds and shining diamonds, thousands of pounds worth of precious stones hanging at her throat... And to her body clung a stylish dress of crimson and black that was enough to make even the most discreet man turn his head.

Her bejewelled hand left the railing and immediately floated to Patrick's arm as was her custom. Matthew almost pitied her in that one instant when he saw how automatic it all was, what an act, what a charade they all put on, but Lady Mary seemed far too superior to be pitied and so the moment passed and was forgotten.

Patrick laid his hand on hers as they approached Matthew. "You have already met, I believe," he said.

"We have," Mary said almost dismissively before Matthew could do so much as blink.

"Briefly," he managed to add.

Mary's eyes lingered on his, sparkled in the candlelight, and then drifted away casually. It was all a blur of extravaganza now, none of it meant a thing, and he and Mary probably would not speak anymore for the duration of the evening. But then, the next instant, Matthew found himself with Mary on his arm. Meanwhile Isobel was on Patrick's arm, Cora on James's, and Lord Grantham led his mother, heading the procession to the table. Matthew had never beheld anything quiet so ridiculous.

By his other side, Lady Sybil and Lady Edith walked together as sisters and Matthew couldn't help but notice that the former at least was also strikingly beautiful. No indeed, they did not have women like these in Manchester.

So much in awe by all this grandeur, and yet, at the same time, trying to maintain his own dignity, Matthew hadn't quiet focused on his expression and therefore remained looking rather stunned. Here was Lady Mary Crawley on his arm, her sisters beside him, and a dinner worth as much as his very own house ahead of him. It was all a bit too much and he wasn't sure what to make of it.

"It's a custom," Mary said with a sigh as they walked. She had taken his astonished expression to be directed at Patrick's handing her to him. "A ridiculous one, certainly. But a custom nonetheless."

Matthew didn't know what to reply. How many customs were there this evening that he wasn't aware of? Thousands, surely. How was he ever to survive? They had hardly even reached the table.

At a lack for any particularly intelligent words, he eventually said, "You look exquisite tonight, Lady Mary." The grander the word, the more aristocratic, he told himself.

"Thank you," she said coolly. But did not return the compliment.

Chairs were pulled back by waiters with pathetic little white towels draped over their arms, but still, they couldn't take their seats just yet. Apparently, the Crawleys were quite a sensation here.

"Good evening to you, Mrs DeWitt Bukater!" Lord Grantham exclaimed to a lady of another party just as someone behind Matthew started to talk as well. He had just lowered himself into his chair and only when Isobel's tapped him on the shoulder did he realize that the lady at the next table had actually been addressing _him_. He turned his head.

"Yes, yes hello, my lord," the elder lady who had been trying to catch his attention said. "I do believe you must be Eugene Walters, sir, the son of the newspaper magnate!" Behind the woman sat a young girl who looked at him eagerly – another marriage candidate.

The woman had spoken so quickly and over all the other talk and laughter and polite 'helleus' Matthew could not, for the life of him, understand a word she'd said. But, thinking it might be rude to ask her to repeat her words, he simply nodded and smiled.

Immediately, the woman clapped her hands, let out a high-pitched laugh and looked positively delighted. She was about to say something more when Matthew was called for at the table. Drinks were served and silver cutlery was added – surely not any more could even fit at his spot – and within moments wine that smelled exceedingly expensive and was a dark, lavish shade of crimson had been poured into his glass.

A toast was made: "To the Crawleys!" Matthew winced at the self-propaganda, even if it was not all that badly meant.

Meanwhile, he hadn't even realized he was sitting next to Lady Mary. Mary, for her part, didn't want to realize. She had Patrick on her once side, this Matthew on her other, and her preferred relations as far away from her as possible. The evening was set to be a horrendous one.

"Matthew – may I call you Matthew?" Cora, Lady Grantham, enquired from the other side of the table. Matthew smiled and nodded. "So, Matthew, do tell us where you are from! Perhaps we might be family! How strange to meet you and your mother on just here, such a small world, isn't it?"

Matthew cleared his throat but wasn't given a chance to reply. "I doubt us to be family," Mary spoke for him.

"How so?" Cora enquired.

"I'm from Manchester," Matthew provided as an explanation for the second time that day.

"There now," the Dowager broke in, "he's from Manchester, so no need to interrogate any further."

Patrick leaned forward, looking interested. "And what exactly do you do in _Manchester_, Matthew?" He pronounced the name of the city as though it were some dangerous and repulsive place where people only went to have their heads examined.

Matthew ignored the minor insult. And tried to lighten the atmosphere by saying with a smile, "I'm afraid I'm breaking my family tradition slightly. I studied to be a lawyer and there is now this new law firm I have been thinking of joining."

"My husband, father and brother were doctors and I myself am a nurse," Isobel told the company rather proudly. Everyone fell silent, simply mulling over how terribly middle-class all those jobs sounded, when Sybil, open as ever, decided to jump in.

"You must be very busy with everything you do, Matthew," she said keenly, "do you ever have time for anything else? Do you read?"

Matthew laughed light-heartedly, taking care not to look as though he were laughing _at _her, however. "I enjoy reading very much and take an interest in literature of all sorts, to be honest – particularly history, architecture and social relations. I have time, certainly, after work. There are the afternoons, after all, and the weekends."

Sybil's face lit up when she heard him mention all those topics that caught her fancy as well. She opened her mouth to say something more when the Dowager spoke, "What is a weekend?"

Matthew's eyes narrowed as the Dowager glanced around in confusion. Soon he found himself just as confused as she was. What was a weekend? Was this some high-class joke he couldn't possibly grasp? But no one was laughing... The awkward silence was finally interrupted by the arrival of the caviar, which Matthew thought somehow to be ironic, seeing as they were on a boat, although of course one couldn't really expect any less from these people.

The talk then picked up again, but the moment the Dowager had created just before did linger with him. Matthew Crawley was overall an educated man, had always risen above most people in his hometown Manchester. It wasn't something he had done conscientiously, for he hated hierarchy more than anything, but he had always been intuitively intelligent and eager to learn. Yet here the tables were turned in an odd way, he thought. It wasn't so much that the rest of the company were more special or more interesting, as that they made themselves to be on top of the world, a world which the likes of him and his mother seemed to be carrying for them.

All during the previous conversation Mary had watched Matthew with a small, undetectable smirk imprinted on her lips. She had watched him sceptically, whereas Sybil had watched him admiringly and Edith hadn't watched him at all – she had had eyes only for Patrick.

For the first time since they had sat down Mary looked away from him and, convinced that she'd regarded him hatefully enough for the time being, placed three little pieces of caviar on her tongue and sucked on them gently. Before she could help herself, she had turned to her neighbour again.

"So, you must enjoy mythology, Matthew?" she enquired as a sort of continuation on his mentioning his interest in (historical) literature, her eyebrows raised in a perfect arch.

Matthew, slightly surprised that she should address him of her own accord, managed a small nod, and said, "Indeed I do. Why do you ask?"

Mary shrugged her thin shoulders and let one of those indecipherable high society expressions pass over her face. "Simply because it has always intrigued me, their view on the world, their gods, the stories in themselves."

"The Greeks intrigue you?" Matthew couldn't help but continue to be surprised. "I should think with so much going on in a life like yours one would not have time to muse over the old Greeks." The words flowed out before he could check them.

Mary gave him a sidelong glance but betrayed no emotion – her face pale, cool, almost like a classical statue of its own, smooth and harsh marble. "Well, there are always the afternoons, and the weekends," she said sarcastically.

Matthew let out a small chuckle. "I don't believe that is a Greek quote."

"No, I don't believe it is." Mary smiled scornfully. "But I thought I might as well use that brilliant line of yours now, for I don't think there will ever be a time to use it again."

"Never say never." The caviar was taken away again and Matthew couldn't even recall having finished it.

"So, in those afternoons and weekends, do you regularly take to excessive reading of those 'old Greeks?'" Mary seemed quite proud now at having used two of his ridiculous phrases in one perfectly formed sentence of her own.

Matthew looked away. "I thought you said you liked the classical era."

Mary raised her eyebrows. "I did."

"But you make reading about it sound like a punishment." With the last word he turned his head and fixed his piercing gaze on her again.

For some inexplicable reason, Mary felt herself blush and now it was her turn to avert her eyes. Luckily she had applied plenty of powder beforehand. This ought to make her face more than unreadable to such a socially illiterate man as Matthew Crawley – better to be safe than sorry. "Well, that wasn't at all my intention. I myself am a great reader of the classics." (Matthew found this hard to believe.) "I was merely trying to get some insight in how life in _Manchester _might be." She raised her eyes.

Like her fiancé, she pronounced the name with disdain. Matthew glanced at Patrick Crawley two seats further. Patrick wasn't paying attention to them but was juggling a conversation with someone another two seats further, Lady Edith, and his father who was sitting in between them. It seemed that Patrick and Mary had little in common besides their hatred for Manchester and their aristocratic background.

Matthew looked back to his neighbour and responded calmly, "Just like you were trying to get an insight in the lives of our Greek ancestors?" It was almost shocking how easily he seemed to adapt to Lady Mary Crawley's little game of cutting metaphors and innuendos. He wasn't sure whether it was entirely a good sign, hardly any good things could come from this evening wasted amongst the elite.

Mary may have frowned at him. He couldn't be sure. But then another course of fish arrived at just the right moment. Matthew felt that, at the end of the evening, he ought to at least thank the waiters and the kitchen for their immaculate timing.

"You have to use the fish knife," Mary said haughtily. Luckily, Matthew didn't see her face as she spoke or he would have been met by a dark look of sarcasm.

"Thank you," was all he said in response. He was perfectly aware of the fact that one had to use a _fish_ knife to eat _fish_, but did not feel that the gain from pointing that out would outweigh the collateral damage to be suffered at the hands of Lady Mary.

Once more, they started off in silence until this time Matthew began by saying, "So, do you see me as a Greek? Plato, Aristotle? Just as inscrutable or just as remote?" He didn't meet her eyes and, considering that she was sitting beside him, he hoped that wouldn't be seen as something all too rude.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself," Mary remarked sharply. She'd lost her appetite now, now and forever, to be sure.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare." Matthew suppressed a smile. "I was just trying to get an insight in your mentality."

Just then a shadow passed over Matthew's chair. "Pardon me for disturbing your dinner, Mr Walters, but I couldn't help but bid you good evening before retiring to my work." Matthew did not recognize the voice in the least and, for as far as he could recall, his name was not Walters, so he did not reply but continued to eat. The man who had cast the shadow cleared his throat. Matthew turned.

"It has been–" the man started, then paused, his brow furrowing. "I am sorry, I must have mistaken you for someone else. I had thought to hear that Eugene Walters was present at this table."

Once again, Mary stepped in, "If only he were, Sir Richard Carlisle." She had to keep herself from laughing, for the fact that Sir Richard had mistaken Matthew Crawley of all people to be a fellow star in the media made the whole situation all the more hilarious. Also, Matthew's face certainly was not helping.

Sir Richard bowed and kissed Mary's outstretched hand. "Lady Mary Crawley, it is a pleasure." The way the man spoke and moved reminded Matthew somewhat of an eel, a serpentine creature, and sent shivers down his spine.

"I do read the papers, Sir Richard. The pleasure is all mine." She retracted her hand and as Matthew awkwardly watched the two of them, he felt that his fair but fearsome dinner companion had perhaps finally met her oily match.

"But I would not dare interrupt your dinner any further, my lady. Hopefully, we will see more of each other during this trip." Sir Richard straightened up again.

"We are on a ship, sir," Mary said jestingly, but good-naturedly – not like she had spoken to Matthew. "I am sure we will."

Sir Richard Carlisle bid her good night, bid Matthew good night, bid whoever else may have listened in good night, and then stalked off. _One man behaves as though he is even more superior than the other_, Matthew thought, turning back to his meal.

"Do you read the papers, Matthew?" Mary enquired after a moment.

Matthew stared determinedly down at his plate and did not respond.

"Or do the afternoons and weekends not offer enough time for such trivial matters?" Lady Mary was persistent, more persistent than anyone Matthew had ever met, and it was really quiet exhausting. But there was something else about it as well, something that made his skin tingle and caused his eyes to glitter.

"Well, the _reading_ rather depends on the newspaper and reader in question, does it not?" he said eventually.

Mary raised her eyebrows once more – the third time this dinner. Matthew realized, to his alarm, that he'd been counting. "What do you mean?" she asked of him.

He cleared his throat. "Well, whether one truly reads the papers for, say, information on Greek antiquity or modern discoveries of the like, or, say, for the magnates who run them."

This remark hit Lady Mary straight in the chest and Matthew felt it. If he had been entirely himself right then and there he might have apologised, but the victory was too sweet to be broken by good manners. The golden, pompous atmosphere had momentarily picked Matthew up and swept him along. One had to adapt to survive, after all.

On the other side of the table the Dowager leaned over to her son. "Robert, I would keep a very close eye on your eldest daughter and that dreadful lawyer, or whatever he is, whom you brought into our midst. Or else, before you know it, indeed before any of us can do so much as blink, _he_ and not Patrick will be your son-in-law!"

Lord Grantham coughed and brought his napkin to his lips to conceal his smile. "Why, let us not jump to any conclusions just yet, mother. They do not seem to be getting along very well, if anything."

"Precisely!" the Dowager exclaimed under her breath. "And that is just the basis for every relationship, as you well know."

No sooner had Violet finished her sentence or Mary herself had gotten up, her hand to her face. Placing her napkin upon the table, she murmured some words of apology before moving away. She covered the length of the dining room within seconds, ascended the steps, her dress fluttering out behind her, and was gone in a moment, out of sight of that dreadful blue-eyed sea monster.


	4. The Night is Young

_A/N: Finally, I managed to take no longer than a week to write and revise this chapter! I hope you agree that some really important development took place here for our favourite Matthew and Mary - and well, it didn't turn out quite as I'd imagined it, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Anyway, you'll see._

_I'm so glad that you're as enthusiastic as I am about this story and thank you so much for all your lovely reviews, follows, favourites and so on and so forth! The attention is so nice and I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations!_

_Enjoy! (Oh, and we all know that Titanic was on TV today, don't we? *creys*)_

* * *

_10 April, 1912_

The wind lapped at her hair and face as Mary followed the deck in the direction of the front of the ship. Finally, after some twenty feet or so, she crossed over to the whitewashed railing where she could finally be away from the exposing lights of the dining room and the prying eyes of the nouveau riche. Nouveau riche, yes, that was how Mary referred to her company in the privacy of that particular moment. This inexplicable feeling had come across her, this inexplicable feeling that despite everything Matthew had said and how terribly rude he had been and how his behaviour was atrocious, he was somehow _right, _right about thinking all of it to be ridiculous. In fact, she'd known this notion to be true long before she'd met him and she hadn't needed him to make it clear to her. She had simply suppressed it all along, suppressed these ideas of rebellion and feelings of disgust, for how would it possibly help her? She could not break free, she was eternally changed to the harbour, a ship never due to leave the land.

She had accepted it long ago, that she was to marry Patrick, that this was to be her life. She had been brought up in preparation for this, it was her fate, and going against it would just be an unnecessary struggle. After all she did have her home secure at Downton now – what more could she want? And Mary hardly minded the fact that her to-be husband might always love another, although why he picked Edith over her, she could not possibly fathom. Anyway, all of that was irrelevant.

The problem now was that somehow this dreadful middle-class lawyer had set her mind at work, had made her think about all of this, and, most of all, had proved her wrong on multiple grounds.

'_God, damn _him_, damn _Matthew Crawley!'she swore inwardly. In truth, Lady Mary Crawley swore a lot more often than people thought, but then again there were many things people did not know about her.

She gripped the railing all the more tightly and, despite her gloves, the metal felt cold to her touch. The deck was almost empty with the occasional exception of a wandering couple or maid running from cabin to cabin – the servants weren't supposed to pass here but well a little shortcut in the dead of the night could do no harm.

Mary felt hopelessly small and irrelevant and above all selfish, dwelling on her own troubles so, as she leant back her head, exposing her bare neck, and looked up at the sky sprinkled with stars. The moon hung like a silver pendant on a thin thread of cloud – so close, and yet always out of reach.

Being on the port side of the ship, she could see the North Star almost directly ahead of her. Cocking her head, she drifted off to the left leaving the Little Dipper and Draco behind to locate strong and courageous Hercules. She sighed inadvertently, oh Hercules. Then she left even him behind and looked right. Her heart froze. There was Perseus, beside his beloved Andromeda – both saved, both immortalized.

For a moment Mary had felt at ease trying to recall the constellations but already she had harshly been thrust back on earth with the realization, now more present than ever, that she was quite alone. Oh, but by pitying herself she would get no further either! She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she saw the waters below her, curling and twirling around in a dance they were doomed to perform until the end of time. In them she saw reflected the stars, she saw Perseus and Andromeda drowning – not saved, but perished.

She shook her head to clear it. Those specks were probably just the lights of the Titanic – not the stars anyway – the Titanic gliding on ahead, strong and reliable. As long as she remained here, she could never drown, and yet, what would it be like, to be taken along in that eternal dance of the waves and clashing foam? Would she be free then? What might it be like to–

"Lady Mary?"

Mary's mouth froze, as though she'd been speaking to herself – in fact, her thoughts froze as well. Even the waters below seemed to freeze, and in an involuntary movement she clutched the railing that much tighter, as though this new arrival might be here to push her in, to fulfil her wishes.

The shock however only lasted a second. The voice had belonged to none other than Matthew Crawley. Patrick would never have come for her anyway.

"I–" she started, without looking at him. She still couldn't quite move.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you. I just wanted to make sure you were all right," Matthew said, his voice reflecting the deepest form of guilt and concern. He made sure to keep his distance from her, though, thinking that she might pounce at the slightest new movement.

"I–" she tried again. It still didn't work, her tongue seemed glued... "Don't be ridiculous!" There, that felt better. "I'm perfectly fine. You needn't have come looking for me."

Matthew slowly took a step towards her now that she seemed to be her old self again. Somehow it comforted him more when she was smooth-tongued and sharp, versus when she stammered, and seemed more human. Somehow it reassured him that she was just how he'd imagined a highborn lady to be and not something..._more_.

"How _did _you even get away?" She looked at him properly for the first time. His cheeks were flushed, he looked pale, but alive, whilst when she'd checked the mirror before embarking on her journey to dinner she had made sure she looked absolutely drained of all life, unreadable and disinterested. That saved one lots of trouble. But Matthew, he looked different, he looked _likeable_.

Matthew, gazing out over the ocean, had to hold back a smile. The way she'd posed the question had made it seem as though the two of them were some wild explorers who had just managed to individually escape from the lion's den.

"Well, I rather took advantage of my 'Manchesterian' background to make a very low class exit. Anyway, this evening couldn't have gone much worse, so I didn't think it would matter."

Matthew's reply was utterly sincere and Mary couldn't help but look at him in a new light. He had put her above his reputation. She didn't know why he had done it, but somehow she thought it unbelievably sympathetic of him. "Oh, things could have gone a lot worse, Matthew, I assure you."

Smiling, he said, "I'll take your word for it then, my lady. Are you sure you're feeling quite well? You didn't look like you were enjoying the view just then."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Please, don't worry about me."

Matthew simply nodded and they stood in silence for a few moments. Eventually, he began by saying "Shall we–" with half a nod in the direction of the restaurant but was immediately interrupted.

She spoke as though he hadn't even opened his mouth. "Do you happen to know the story of Perseus and Andromeda?" Her eyes were fixed on the heavens.

Since she wasn't looking at him, Matthew took advantage of the moment to observe her face from nearby. It was almost too close, really, for him, but now he couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away anymore. He spoke without actually realizing what he was saying. "Why?"

"The only way King Cepheus could appease the gods was by sacrificing his eldest daughter to a hideous sea monster..." she mused. "So they chained her, naked, to a rock."

She paused and swallowed and Matthew did not dare speak. He watched her throat move, her eyelids flutter and the way that one odd, rebellious strand of dark hair quivered in the wind.

"Did the sea monster get her?" Matthew queried, although he knew the story by heart. He just wanted to hear her speak.

"No," she continued in that same soft tone. "She was rescued."

"By Perseus," concluded Matthew.

Immediately, Mary snapped out of her daze and looked at him, catching his expression and meeting his eyes directly. She smiled somewhat challengingly as Matthew tried to make up for his inappropriate stare by blinking a lot. "So you do know the story?" she asked. "I was almost beginning to think you were boasting of your knowledge."

Matthew was at first caught slightly off-guard by her change of temper but quickly relaxed and chuckled. "Maybe you simply chose the one myth I've heard of," he joked. "But I will have you know, however, that I _can_ truly read."

Mary's challenging smile seemed to soften into a friendlier one, but maybe that was just his imagination combined with the stars in the background and the light from the chandeliers sweeping out over the deck.

"So, who is your Perseus?" Matthew ventured.

Mary's smile remained frozen for a second, then she turned her head away, and when she looked back her expression was once again placid.

"Surely Patrick isn't that bad," he continued matter-of-factly as if it was the most natural topic in the world.

Mary however was utterly taken aback by how transparent she had let herself be in those few moments and how quickly Matthew had seen her situation through. They'd only just met, they were strangers, he was a stranger, they couldn't possibly be related and all of this was absolutely preposterous.

"Whatever are you talking about?" She quickly decided to take on the incredulous approach.

Now it was Matthew's turn to wish that the deck would swallow him up. Who did he think he was, to be giving her blatant advice like that? He wasn't sure how this evening could really have gone _any_ worse, to be quite honest, and felt his face turn that much redder. "God, I'm sorry," he said for the second time, "I didn't mean to intrude, I just–"

"No, I'm sure you never _mean _to do anything and end up doing it anyway, which is just marvellous. Now you certainly are no Aristotle in disguise!" She was truly offended now. How _dare _he assume things about her? And, at the same time, she had just started taking a liking to him, when– when she had been brought to realize that all of this was a complete joke! So, in truth, she probably was angrier with herself than with the young man by her side.

Mary's sudden heated words triggered something in Matthew, some defence, some internal pride that still had to be protected – for he did have some integrity, even if those big wigs believed him to be a hollow shell of a human being. But this wasn't the true reason for his response. "So the point of all this was just to recite Perseus and Andromeda's wonderfully romantic story to me?" he demanded, ignorant of the fact that Mary felt much the same way as he did – the moment had suddenly been broken, and he blamed himself for it.

"Oh, it's a classic, don't make it sound like a _punishment_," Mary bit back.

"Firstly, I would gladly not have myself quoted every other minute. Secondly, I don't think that lovely myth is quite suitable here. This seems to me a lot more like a case of the Narcissus."

At this point, Mary looked positively flustered. "Well, you would know, wouldn't you, being a doctor?"

"A lawyer! But, speaking for the doctors, I don't think this particular patient can be cured." He took a step back now, motioning to her in mock gallantry. "So, by all means, my lady, do go on enjoying the view of your own reflection."

"How dare–" Mary started.

"Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to go back and finish my peaches in chartreuse jelly before they drown in equally good temper."

As if on cue, the wind picked up and whipped at their figures. The deck was abandoned now and darker clouds had moved to shield the stars: the distant suns covering their faces in shame and embarrassment. Mary could kill herself for all her self-pity now. "Oh, how cruelly eloquent you are!" she cried out over the wind.

"Lawyer at your service," Matthew bowed stiffly and when he looked up at her one last time, saw her pressing herself so tightly to the railing, looking so desperately pale, and so desperately lost, that he halted. He was wise enough this time not to appear as though he felt sorry for her, but decided to reflect on himself. It did not take him long to realize how atrociously he had behaved and to recall that this woman was not merely a school friend of his but a true lady and one who had indirectly invited him to dinner at that!

But then there was also something more, something more that they seemed to be fighting over, a moment that had been there seconds ago, a moment that shouldn't have really been there, and yet it had happened, just like that. So neither could truly figure out whether they regretted that moment's having been broken or were angry that it had taken place at all.

Matthew had to remind himself that the two of them had only just met.

Slowly, he walked over to her. Saying 'I'm sorry' for the third time in one conversation would not do, so instead, without touching her, he spoke under his breath, "Yet I'd be careful not to fall in if I were you."

Mary lowed her eyes and paused. It took her longer to reply this time. "Is it very cold?"

"Awfully cold." _Even colder than you are_, he added to himself, but his inner voice was gentle, almost affectionate even.

Slowly, her hands released their grip on the railing and slipped away, hanging limp at her sides. She had nothing to fiddle with, no cutlery to clutch onto with all her might, she couldn't even think of any way to rid herself of his company (or perhaps she purposely wasn't thinking hard enough). She was bare and had only her jewellery to weigh her down. All of a sudden, she felt like ridding herself of every single precious stone and flinging each one individually into the sea.

"I think you should get back to your peaches in chartreuse jelly now," Mary said determinedly.

The wind resided. "Not before we've been properly introduced."

She raised her eyebrows but Matthew didn't give her much time to wonder. Taking her hand in his he kissed it. "Matthew Crawley."

She nodded her head in acknowledgement and had to do her best to hide a very untimely smile. "Lady Mary Crawley."

"May I accompany you, Lady Mary–"

"Mary," the name stripped of its title left her mouth like a shot and she probably couldn't have stopped it from coming even if she'd wanted to.

Matthew blinked. "_Mary_...may I accompany you back in?" He reached out his arm to her and she took it, so lightly and regally that he would barely have felt her presence at his side if he hadn't somehow been so aware of every movement that she made. It was the closest they'd been, physically and mentally, so far, and despite the cold, Matthew shuddered, warmed by an inner fire.

As they made their way across the deck, Mary's hand on Matthew's arm (how had it gotten there again?) she remarked, "This is so dreadfully against the rules, Matthew! One cannot simply introduce oneself, you must have friends to do it for you!"

"Nonsense, nonsense!" Matthew replied immediately, acquiring a slightly lower voice and a slightly more aristocratic accent. "What rules? We make the rules! Who has time for friends nowadays?"

Mary's laugh rang out high and elegant as it drifted down to sea and was tasted by the waves. Fortunately, that was all they would be seeing of Lady Mary Crawley for the time being.

She had been saved. By Perseus.

* * *

"What a delightful dinner that was!" Isobel exclaimed drily as she and Matthew walked down the second-class hallways (how tight and narrow they now seemed!) leading back to their own cabin.

Matthew didn't really know how to reply. If he had not gone out onto the deck during dessert he most probably would have agreed whole-heartedly...or would he? "The food was good," he ended up replying.

Isobel looked at him with narrowed eyes as only a doctor could look, as though she were already performing a medical examination. "Indeed it was, and well, an interesting experience all around, one might say."

Matthew supposed that she was trying not to clash with him too much if he had had an enjoyable time, but then again, she had been sitting just beside him as he and Mary had fought (relatively politely) throughout two courses. And then one and a half course later they had fought (somewhat less politely) over an oncoming storm. Thankfully Isobel had missed out on the latter. Matthew himself didn't know what to make of it. His mind had gone blank and blurred and kept tripping over itself every time he tried to have it think more reasonably.

So he didn't respond. They reached the door of their room, the key was produced, the lock clicked.

"You haven't been talking much lately," Isobel said as they entered. "Are you ill?"

_Typical._ Matthew smiled to himself and somehow the smile lightened his heart. "No, not in the least–"

"I thought you might be seasick," Isobel persisted.

"No–"

"Or had food poisoning?"

Matthew frowned as he turned from shutting the door. "Mother?"

"Or were suddenly infatuated with high society life?" The way she looked at him almost reminded him of Mary and her incessant questioning. He shook his head.

"I'm just rather overwhelmed by it all," he said. "Is that so very wrong?" Walking into the bedroom, he undid his suit jacket and hung it over the chair by the desk. His eyes lingered momentarily on the notebook lying in front of him. He hadn't written anything more since he'd been interrupted earlier today but now had the sudden urge to fill pages and pages with anything and everything that might come to mind.

"Well, Matthew, allow me to add to this sudden anxiety symptom of yours. Do you chance to know who we picked up in stopping by Cherbourg earlier today?" Isobel pulled the pins out of her hair, her voice subtly laden with sarcasm.

Matthew grinned amusedly. "Who?"

"None other than John Jacob Astor, who appears to be the richest man on this ship!"

Her son laughed. "So they get richer?"

"Apparently. And younger, too. His wife is eighteen, or so I'm told." Matthew and Isobel exchanged smiles as they organized their things and got ready to retire for the night.

"Taken to gossiping, have we, mother?" Matthew teased.

"Well, one does have to adapt to survive." In saying this, she gave her son one of her _most_ meaningful looks. Sometimes it felt as though she could see straight through him at a glance. But then again she was his mother, wasn't that what mothers were for? Matthew swore his eloquence came less from his career as a lawyer and more from those deathful looks Isobel often shot him. Now those could truly speak for entire volumes.

"We were only talking about literature," he provided apologetically, something which took him back to his school days when he'd had to convince the teacher that the topics of conversation certainly did have something to do with what was discussed in class. It had almost always worked on his teachers, never on his mother.

"Oh, I'm aware of that," Isobel said emphatically, "and what an exciting discussion it was. I'm sure even a blind man listening in would have been encouraged to read! Extremely inspiring!"

Matthew looked concerned and extremely concentrated for a moment, then suddenly burst out laughing. "It was quite a flop, wasn't it!" he exclaimed, throwing himself down on his bed and digging his hands deep into his blond hair.

His mother smiled and sat down next to him. "I believe it _all_ to have been quite a flop and a good joke to them, certainly – and even that is still an understatement."

He tried to control his laughter a bit and when he had, he faced her, appearing serious with the exception of that betraying smile that hovered around his lips. "I think I behaved rather horrifically! Will we never understand them, mother?"

Isobel got up again, straightening out her shirt. "You can try, Matthew. Those upper-class irons do tend to get awfully hot!" Here, a meaningful look was no longer necessary. Her words had said enough.

"And try I will!" he called after her as she disappeared into the bathroom. _And try I will, _he repeated to himself. All of a sudden, he found that the challenge had been set up, and what an impossible challenge it was!

* * *

_A/N: Impossible? Hmm, well, we'll see, Matthew, we'll see..._

_Next time: Sunshine, reclining chairs, Keats, notebooks, and to flirt or not to flirt? (If everything goes according to plan, that is...)_

_Also, reviews are as always very, very much appreciated! Thank you a billion times in advance!_


	5. Such Good Luck

_Hello again! I am so, so sorry for the long wait leading up to this chapter! My mind has been elsewhere recently and I'm travelling now so the revision took a lot longer than usual! Yet here it is and I do hope it lives up to your expectations!_

_Thank you for your patience, my dears, and enjoy!_

* * *

_11 April, 1912_

The light had just begun to filter through the windows and fine white curtains of Lady Mary Crawley's bedroom when she found herself already drifting out of sleep and slowly floating back into reality. She had the large double bed entirely to herself and rolled over leisurely before raising a hand to her pale forehead. With a smile, she realized that she did not feel quite as bad this morning as she thought she would, considering the events of the previous night. And as she lay between the sheets, staring up at the decorated ceiling, a feeling of inexplicable optimism washed over her.

Mary felt weightless as she swung her legs out of bed, pressed the balls of her feet against the floor, and then stood up and stretched. The long nightgown danced around her ankles as she walked about the room, occasionally pausing to dig her toes into the soft carpet, before she made her way to the porthole. The ocean was emerald blue, smooth, untroubled, parting easily to let the Titanic glide through.

She did not bother to get dressed yet and, hugging her silken robe to her body, she made her way out of her bedroom (which adjoined that of Patrick's) and onto their private square of deck. There, a table for two was already being set up by Anna. Anna was moving even more noiselessly than Mary was, her priority being that she did not wake her mistress and master, and ever so gently she was making the finishing touches to their breakfast table, making sure that everything was just as they liked to have it.

Mary had never felt quite so rosy and well tempered as when she paused in the doorway that morning, the cool breeze flitting through the narrow space between her skin and the fabric of her gown, and watched Anna about her work. In the back of her mind lingered something of the previous evening, some memory, some dream-like images of a blond man with bright blue eyes, and some notion that it wasn't entirely right. But, for the life of her, she could no longer remember what it was that wasn't entirely right.

"Oh, my lady!" Anna exclaimed when she turned to find Mary standing by the door. She dropped a curtsy. "I hope I did not wake you."

Mary smiled warmly and the memories of the past evening slipped away again. "No, not to worry. I just woke up. Some tea would be nice." She walked over to the table and watched Anna shuffle the cups and the saucers. After having seen Mr Carson fuss over all their meals for as long as she could remember, it was strange to have Anna attend to her in this manner.

Mary had barely sat down and begun to sip her tea when Patrick emerged. She had not expected him to be up this early. Indeed she had not expected herself to be up this early, but she had at least hoped to have some time to herself before the day truly commenced. Once again, it was not to be.

"Darling, couldn't you sleep?" He poked his head around the corner, acknowledged Anna with a nod, made his way over to the table and bowed over his fiancée to place a light kiss on her lips. Mary tasted of Earl Grey and something sweeter – Harlequin biscuits. Patrick hummed his assent. "That tastes delicious. I'm glad to see you haven't started breakfast without me."

Mary turned her eyes back over the railing and fixed them on the horizon – just a thin strip of blue. "You know I wouldn't dare," she said lightly, forcing a small smile.

Patrick lowered himself into his chair before he took the time to observe what was for breakfast. The table was filled with fresh cakes and coloured fruits and juicy charcuterie and all sorts of different types of scones. The sweet scent of bread, sugar, and bacon rose up to meet him and he took up his cutlery.

Anna by now had dashed off to attend to her other, younger mistresses and had been replaced by one of the maids of the ship itself. The girl stood silently, unobserved, invisible in a corner. Patrick served himself and eventually raised a hand to summon the young waitress. "Plain omelettes," he said, his eyes on the menu, "with a side of sautéed potatoes – no toppings of any kind."

The waitress nodded. "For one person, sir?"

"Yes."

With a modest "Of course, sir" and a quick bob the girl was off again without Patrick's having taken any real notice of her.

"Won't you have something to eat, darling?" Patrick enquired of Mary as he picked up a scone.

Mary fiddled with the ribbon of her braid, her cup of tea in one hand, the thin silk rubbing against the palm of the other. "No, I'm not very hungry."

"You haven't had much of an appetite lately. You will let me know if anything is the matter, won't you?" he spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. He had known Mary since they were young and could most certainly tell when his presence wasn't exactly welcome.

"Of course," she said. And those were the last words spoken over breakfast.

It took Mary only another minute or two to realize what hadn't been entirely right about her interaction with Matthew the evening before. Despite the fact that that dreadful lawyer was disagreeable in many ways, that in one evening he had provoked multiple heated discussions, and that he had enraged her, she found that she'd actually enjoyed herself. She had had a far more interesting evening with him than she had had at Downton in years. Somehow, Matthew Crawley had managed to break the silence.

* * *

That same Matthew Crawley found himself lying on his stomach on a chaise longue outside the second-class dining room around noon. The ship had stopped moving and was currently moored at Queenstown in South-Ireland, and Matthew had the chance to blame his restlessness on the fact that they weren't really going anywhere. His notebook was in front of him, his pencil pressed between his lips and he was staring out over the ocean with a faraway look in his eyes. He had undone his shirt collar and had slipped into a world of his own. Every now and then his fingertips twitched or his eyes suddenly darted to another spot in the clear blue sky. There was clearly something on his mind and Isobel knew better than to disturb him at times like those, so she had gone off to explore the ship.

Matthew was drowning in a sea of conflicting thoughts, of things he should have said, or shouldn't have said, or should have done, or shouldn't have done – and for the most part it annoyed him that he should be thinking about it at all! And so when he, for the first time, turned his eyes back to the deck, he thought he was hallucinating.

She was completely in white, holding a matching parasol in her gloved hands, a curved hat nestled in the contrasting black of her hair. He couldn't tell the difference between the colour of her skin and the colour of her summer dress. But he could tell exactly who she was by the sweet scent of her perfume. The realization brought a rosiness to his cheeks.

Matthew's mouth opened just a centimetre, yet besides that he didn't have time to move or say a word before she was already by his side.

"I did think I recognized you," Mary said stiffly. The warmer tone from their last encounter had vanished.

Matthew stammered a bit, swallowed, tried to come up with something to say but decided that perhaps he should change of position before even attempting to have a conversation with her. After all, he was still on his stomach, which certainly was not very sophisticated, and his neck was beginning to ache from looking up at her. Clumsily, he righted himself, his legs tingling, and tried to get up, but stumbled and sat down again.

Mary almost laughed but covered it up with a little cough. "Did I take you by surprise?" How very boyish he looked right now – so unlike any of the other men she knew!

"No, not at all," he spluttered. "Please..." He gestured at the other chaise before realizing that this probably wasn't the sort of seat she was used to. However, Lady Mary Crawley perched herself on the edge of it so elegantly that one wouldn't have thought she'd ever sat on anything else. With a smooth gesture, she folded up her parasol and placed it beside her.

"My parents were hoping you and your mother had enjoyed yourselves last night," Mary said formally. "In fact, mama wanted to come and see you in person but I believe she's been held up by Sybil on the staircase and is currently being lectured on some technical wonder or other."

Matthew waited for Mary's smile, double-checked that she had indeed meant it as a joke, and then permitted himself to laugh. "Lady Sybil is your youngest sister, isn't she?"

Mary nodded. "She's quite like you, you know."

"In what way?"

"Stubborn." Mary had her eyes intently fixed on his face.

He cleared his throat and changed the subject a lot less smoothly than Patrick Crawley had the night before. "You are too kind to come and find us. My mother will be back soon, I'm sure; she's just touring the ship. I cannot thank you enough for the dinner and–"

Lady Mary, with her brown eyes still boring into him, interrupted him in such a practiced way that he hardly even realized he'd been interrupted. "You _did_ enjoy yourself, I hope?" Matthew did not fail to notice that as she asked this she clasped and unclasped her slim hands over and over again.

"Yes, very much," he replied without hesitation. "Over cigars your father seemed rather interested in Captain Robert Falcon Scott and his travels to the South Pole," he went on quickly.

Mary laughed. "Perhaps because they share the same name?"

Matthew smiled as well. "Perhaps! I hadn't thought of that!"

They fell silent and Matthew was left with the itching feeling that when she had asked that question so urgently of him, she hadn't been referring to his activities in the smoking room. He found himself unable not to reply properly, "I do want to apologise for the trouble I caused you yesterday–"

She raised her hand. "Please, don't speak of it. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Crawley."

"No, please, I do truly want to apologise. Allow me to apologise..."

"You can make all the apologies you like–" Mary got up decisively "–I won't accept them."

Matthew got up as well, taking advantage of the movement to straighten out his waistcoat. It was getting almost unbearably hot outside but he still found himself wishing that he hadn't undone his top shirt button. "Why ever not?" he asked of her.

"Because there's nothing to apologise for, so I can hardly accept, can I?"

Matthew fell silent. He duly noted that she made no attempt to apologise in return, so he decided to make an end to his own apologies. He thought that she might leave now, Lady Grantham and Lady Sybil were still nowhere in sight after all, but she made no move to go. They ended up standing in awkward silence for a moment more before he enquired, "If you don't mind my asking, why are you going to America?"

"We have family there," she responded haughtily, "mama's side of the family. We'll be staying with them."

"Of course," Matthew said, recalling Lady Grantham's American accent.

"And you?" she asked.

"I...I have a client, in law, who has a friend in America, who has another friend, and well, that original client recommended me and then this friend of a friend of a friend wanted to meet me. They booked me a ticket, and so here I am," Matthew explained matter-of-factly. He started off unsure as to what she would make of his working-class speech, but ended up thinking that it wouldn't matter anyway, especially after what had happened the evening before.

Mary looked at him in that fashion of hers that was indecipherable, an expression that simultaneously annoyed him and intrigued him. "So, it was a matter of good fortune?"

"Yes, I suppose one could say I lucked out."

Suddenly, Mary's eyes darted down to the booklet that he'd left lying on his chaise. "And what does a man of law read?"

"Uh..." Matthew licked his lips and hastily stooped to pick up his notebook, nervously passing it from one hand to the other, not knowing how to reply. "It's not..." He trailed off again.

But while Matthew intently studied the pattern of the deck Mary's keen eyes had spotted writing on the pages of his booklet and a shade of something that might be interpreted as excitement passed over her face. "Why, you're a writer!" She gripped her parasol tighter.

"No, I don't, I'm not– I write a few things...but I wouldn't call myself a writer." He looked away.

"Oh, it's a diary," she said.

"Not exactly..."

Mary narrowed her eyes and, before she could stop herself, said, "Might I be able to read something of it?" She found herself oddly taken by this man who did so many things – especially after all this time of mingling with people who only spoke of all the wonders they would achieve but never in their life lifted a finger.

Matthew froze; his blue eyes translucent. "I– What do you mean, Lady Mary?"

Mary's fingers stroked the smooth handle of her parasol. "Could you perhaps write something for me..." (that sounded inappropriate, she could not possibly end it there!) "...to read?" she ended up adding again.

Matthew still did not know what on earth she meant. "You would like me to write you something...?" he said hesitatingly.

"Oh yes! That would be wonderful!" Mary chimed in as though he were the one to have proposed it in the first place. Matthew thought this to be a new all-time low. _Write _something for Lady Mary Crawley?! How could he ever write _anything_, anything at all, knowing that it would be read by her?!

She was looking at him expectantly, with that intense gaze of hers, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Yes but...it's not that easy to write...something new."

Mary's heart fell. Her response was immediate, "What was that phrase again? _If poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all...?_"

For the first time since Lady Mary had brought up writing, Matthew raised his eyes to meet hers. "You know your Keats," he said, impressed.

Mary, however, found herself enormously insulted by the fact that he should think she might _not _know her Keats! "Anyone who doesn't know their Keats is a fool."

Matthew didn't get the chance to react as Lady Grantham came up beside them. With her were Sybil and, to Matthew's surprise, his mother, too! The Countess appeared especially flustered and Matthew mutely tried to demand of Isobel what she'd said or done to make the other seem so uncomfortable. He was ignored. "Ah, darling, there you are!" Cora said haughtily. "And Matthew, how nice to see you again! We keep bumping into each other, don't we – such coincidences!"

"Indeed, what a coincidence!" He put on his best smile and involuntarily gave Mary a look of confusion. Hadn't she said at the beginning of their conversation that Lady Grantham had been coming to seek him out herself? So, why was she now surprised to find him here? Unfortunately, he was ignored by Mary as well.

Young Sybil, obviously excited to see Matthew again, was about to say something when Cora cut her off by turning to her eldest daughter. "I'm afraid we must be going, my dear. So sorry to budge in!" She glanced between Matthew and Mary.

"Not to worry," Matthew said. In that instant he heard a gleeful voice from behind him and had to suppress a sigh. Within moments, Lavinia Swire, who he'd only met that same morning, was in their midst. "Oh, I _am _sorry!" she said immediately upon seeing who his company was and shyly began to recoil.

But Matthew jumped in and quickly began to introduce everyone before Miss Swire had the chance to retreat. Just his luck to have everyone bump into each other and just his luck that he found himself forced, in the presence of the aristocratic Crawleys, to show that he did have some knowledge of etiquette! In fact, he thought that the only good fortune of his that could truly be called good fortune was indeed that he found himself traveling upon the RMS Titanic at all.

The minute Lady Mary laid eyes upon Lavinia, she realized with a pang that Matthew Crawley might be married, and then consequently it dawned upon her equally sharply that she had somehow inadvertently noticed that he did not wear a wedding ring, so that couldn't be the case. But why on earth had she noticed that?!

Reginald Swire, a quiet man, came up behind his daughter and Matthew briefly explained that Lavinia's father was a lawyer as well and that that was what had brought them together. At this, a polite laugh rippled through the company before Cora once again pressed that they really _must_ be going!

The three ladies excused themselves and left the Swires and Crawleys to discuss whatever it was that middle-class people discussed.

With her two daughters, Cora hurried down the deck to get back to the more familiar areas of the ship. "Such radical people!" she exclaimed under her breath. "His mother, at least." She blinked a few times, as if to rid herself of the thought of Isobel Crawley. "How was Matthew?"

Mary shrugged, hiding her expression in the shadow of her parasol. "He's...very full of himself."

"Well, it was to be expected," Cora said with a huff.

"I thought Cousin Matthew was rather nice actually!" Sybil protested bitterly.

"Please Sybil," her mother groaned.

Meanwhile, some twenty metres back, Matthew listened with half an ear to what Lavinia was saying while he watched the three ladies in ivory disappear around a corner. Mary had left him with the nagging feeling that any conversation that ended on the word 'fool' could hardly be called progress and that, somehow, it was now up to him to set things straight.

* * *

That evening, Lady Mary returned from a long dinner drained of all energy. As alive as she had felt the same morning, that was how exhausted she felt now. Her step, usually light and elegant, seemed to weigh her down, her shoes unwilling to let go of the floor as she made her way back to her room. Briskly, she said good night to Patrick and with a sigh of relief retreated into the privacy that was Anna's silent company. Soon, she was released from the confinement of her corset and already felt considerably better.

She made sure that Patrick was well in his own room before she opened the door out onto their private deck. The warm breeze instantly reached its soothing fingers inside the chamber and blew up the curtains and the sheets and her nightgown. Sitting down by the mirror, Mary watched as the cloth struggled with itself, dancing into knot after knot.

Anna's keen hands moved about her hair imperceptibly, pulling out the pins and letting the dark hair escape to cling to her face, as though fearful of the wind. By now, the breeze had picked up and Anna offered to close the door.

Turning to the mirror, Mary caught her reflection. Her face was exposed, clean, scrubbed of the powder, her hair pulled away so she could clearly see her eyes. _This seems to me a lot more like a case of the Narcissus._ Was he right? Mary shook her head. She could not think about that, would not allow herself to think about that. She looked down at her dressing table, her fingers trying to find something to do, to busy herself. Although she had been exhausted only moments ago she couldn't go to sleep just yet. Why was there nothing for her to do?

Then her eye caught a piece of paper, a small envelope no bigger than a powder box, an envelope that certainly had not been there earlier that day. Mary picked it up and sought her maid's gaze in the mirror. "Anna, what is this?"

"I found it under your door, my lady, when I came in this evening." Mary felt the room close around her. For a moment longer, she kept watching Anna's face, trying to find some betrayal of knowledge in her expression. Did Anna suspect anything? If she did, she did not show it.

Mary waited – an eternity it seemed – until Anna finally left the room. Only then did she carefully slip a trembling finger under the flap of the envelope. It popped open effortlessly, the paper giving way to her eagerness. Mary's heart fluttered in her chest, then slowly travelled to her throat, making it hard to breathe as she unfolded the paper.

Choking on an unknown fear (was it fear?), she stumbled up and wrenched open the door that Anna had just closed. The wind, much cooler now, hugged her body and, slowly, she grew calmer. The sound of the ocean reached her ears and then it was almost like she could hear him speak, like she could hear him speak the words to her, the words that she had now begun to read.

* * *

_Thank you so much for sticking with me throughout! I would love to know what you thought, feedback is always wonderful! Thank you again!_

_Oh, and next time: a very inappropriate invitation..._


	6. The World Below

_A/N: Dearest readers, I'm terribly sorry for the long wait! I had this chapter lying around half-finished for the longest of times and for some reason I couldn't bring myself to finish it. Now, at last, it's done, and I hope it will live up to your expectations! Thank you ever so much for your patience._

_The pace certainly picks up here, so consider the previous chapters as a sort of establishing of relationships and characters. __For those of you worrying about the appearance of the beloved Mr Pamuk, please set your minds at rest. He will appear, but not in the way you might think. Also, __if you chance to wonder in the next thirty seconds or so why I did not credit anyone for the first few lines of this chapter: well, it is because there is no one to credit. I wrote it myself. And I promise you that for an enhanced performance of it, you must envision Dan Stevens reading it to you._

_Last but not least: if I'm right, the Highclere Awards are coming up again soon... And I really don't know how else to put it, but if you do think I, as a writer, and this story, as a story, are worthy of a nomination, then I would be most grateful if you were to vote for me! (Slipping in here that I'm still below twenty years of age, and will be below twenty years of age for a little while to come... Ehem. Just so you know.)_

_But I'll stop blabbing now. Thank you for sticking with me! Enjoy the chapter and, of course, for the Brits among you, enjoy _Downton Abbey_ season three tomorrow!_

* * *

_12 April, 1912_

_Dark eyes tell tales unknown to man,  
__That hold all words from day to night,  
__That reach out with an aching hand,  
__And give balance to the daylight.  
__Soft, stolen curls jump in your face,  
__Stifled by the summer rains, seething,  
__Tempted by the stars turning in a race,  
__Against her own pale skin, breathing.  
__The faint silk of touch was woven long ago,  
__When water did not run down in lines,  
__And the thin leaves of life rocked to and fro,  
__Leaving love lost and love in minds.  
__ Yet her fabric lies still in another shade,  
__ And God save us all if it should ever fade._

Everything made too much noise – the popping open of the pen, the scratch of the ink, the rustling of the paper, even the trembling of her hand, and her pulse, the pressure that almost caused her to blotch the note. Carefully, she wrote, every word taking much longer to form itself than it should have. And, in the end, she was not satisfied, but there was no room for satisfaction in the narrow space between her and the wall that grazed her shoulder blades. Eventually, she decided not to give it any more thought. The morning would not last forever.

Mary got up, collected her robe around her, and began to dress. Patrick would wonder where she was if he got up as early as he had the day before, but she owed him nothing, and a white lie would do. Gradually, she began to realize that it was not so much the return to her own grounds that worried her, as the trip down and into a whole other layer of society. And what if he was already awake, if he caught her on his threshold, and if he personally confronted her on the spot, which he was likely to do? She halted. Not giving him an answer was out of the question, but as things stood, answering him seemed just as much of an impossibility.

Her hand reached back to press against the drawer that held the sonnet she'd received from him, and, once again, Mary's eyes wandered to the porthole in front of her, to the distant azure blue sea, foaming with white.

"Would you like me to take care of that, my lady?" Anna's voice came out of nowhere. Mary hadn't even heard her open the door, had been completely oblivious of her presence, and she turned around so quickly that the room itself didn't stop spinning even when she had. She steadied herself on the desk, her thumb pressed against the drawer, as though she was afraid that it might open of its own accord.

"Good morning, Anna," Mary said, her voice levelled and controlled.

The lady's maid curtsied and when she had righted herself, said, just as calmly, "Would you like me to deliver that letter, my lady?"

Mary's throat closed and no matter how hard she tried to tell herself that she was perfectly calm, that she had no reason to be so on edge, her body seemed to think otherwise. "What letter?"

Anna nodded to the envelope that Mary was holding. "I could take it with me on my way downstairs, if you wish."

"That won't be necessary," Mary said, "but thank you for the offer."

Since Mary was only partly dressed and, for some reason, insisted upon being completely dressed before breakfast came along, Anna set about her usual business to tame her mistress's hair and clothing. Twenty minutes later she was finished and, having gathered a few things to take with her, she made for the door.

That was when Mary spoke. "Actually, Anna..."

Anna turned. "Yes, my lady?"

Mary, for once in her life, found herself at a loss for words. She fiddled with the troublesome envelope. "Your offer, from before, could you perhaps..." She trailed off.

But no more words were needed. Anna immediately nodded and stepped forward to take the note from Mary's hand. "Of course," she said. Once again, she headed towards the door, and once again Mary's voice reached out to her.

"Wait, Anna, let me explain..."

Anna stopped and looked over her shoulder. She smiled. "Please, there's no need, my lady. I understand."

* * *

As Matthew made his way back from breakfast to his room, he thought, for the first time, that he could truly feel the ship moving beneath his feet. He thought he could feel the deck turn to water that lapped at his heels, clung to his legs and slung him from side to side. He thought that he'd never make it to his room, that it was physically impossible to bridge such a gap without tripping, without letting the water take him and carry him away. He thought that, now that the creature had awoken, its hungry jaws would spare no one.

Eventually, no matter what his mind told him, he did get to the door. But there, he felt as though he couldn't possibly get his fingers to the handle, as though it was somehow constantly moving away from him, teasing him with gentle brown eyes and a smile of rosy lips. The entire morning he'd seen flashes of those eyes, beckoning him closer, only to retreat each time he approached, and the entire morning he'd felt panicked that his choice of words hadn't been right, that the poem still wasn't good enough, that it wouldn't do... But it had been sent, she had most probably read it by now, and there was no going back.

He took one step into the room and saw it immediately, the white envelope right in front of him on the floor. And relief washed over him.

Her handwriting was just as he'd imagined it – beautiful yet simple, elegant yet bold – and the letter was just as devoid of content as he'd expected it to be.

_Dear Mr Crawley,_

_Thank you for giving me a taste of your writing, and for going out of your way to keep me company twice, and for bringing up such fascinating topics and discussions._

_Nonetheless, I fear I have already imposed too much upon you. And I thank you for your troubles._

_Lady Mary Crawley_

* * *

When she returned from luncheon, where she'd laughed at a hundred unnecessary jokes, spoken a thousand unnecessary words, and met even more unnecessary people, she found Patrick, the fool who did not know his Keats, with renewed courage and unnecessary attempts at making conversation with her even though all she wanted was to rest. Finally, she told him she needed a moment to herself and finally, he released her from his grasp. Such a nuisance, the man! She could never understand how her family members tolerated him or how they possibly expected her to spend the rest of her life with him!

In truth, Mary was constantly trying to avoid these thoughts on her marriage to Patrick, but every once in a while they did inevitably surface. And when her family had suddenly decided to have a grand conversation concerning their wedding over luncheon earlier that day, there was no avoiding the thoughts any longer. Only this time, they had a previously absent twist to them – that of Matthew Crawley. _What would Matthew think of this? What would he do?_ her mind kept asking of her, and the interrogation did not cease all throughout the meal. And all throughout the meal she thought of how she'd brushed him off so coolly, wrote him a thank you note and said good-bye just like that, while he had done so much for her.

She was appalled with herself. Did she find herself regretting the choice she'd made? She huffed. There was no point in wasting energy on regrets; time could not be turned back.

And so, when she entered her room, she did not see the paper on the floor, for she did not expect it to be there, and only when she stepped on it and it let out a sorrowful crunch beneath her foot did she notice it.

Matthew had once again saved her. This time from that sharp taste they call remorse.

_If you do like a good argument, meet me at the aft 1__st__ class staircase on your deck at nine o'clock this evening._

She laughed out loud when she'd read the solitary line. How could she have thought he would give up so quickly? Indeed, how could the idea have ever crossed her mind? He was a lawyer, after all.

* * *

Two hours earlier saw Matthew at a bar below decks, a pint of English beer in his hand, and an Irish man by his side. They toasted and drained their glasses with practiced ease. They had bumped into each other earlier that same day, when Matthew had been wandering about the ship before lunch, his eyes on all the people that passed him by without a glance, his thoughts on Mary Crawley.

Now the greasy smell of fish and chips filled the air and he licked his fingers satisfactorily. The place was loud and dirty and noisy but for once he didn't mind, he didn't mind at all. The glass was cool in his hand, and the chauffeur's laugh a welcome sound to his ear. "You should really come, Crawley!" Branson was saying good-naturedly.

Matthew grinned. "Oh, I don't know... What sort of thing is it exactly?"

Branson, eager to explain, quickly demanded a refill of the barman before he turned back to Matthew. "Well, me and my mates were playing cards yesterday, and we had a bet. If my friend and I lost the game, we would have to go down and turn the motors on of all the cars." He paused for dramatic effect and Matthew choked on the last of his beer. "Well, luckily, we won, so now the other fellows will have to be playing music on the D-Deck tonight, the saloon, you know – open to all! You have to come, bring whomever you like!"

Matthew was already sipping another pint of beer and he didn't even know how it had gotten to his hand. Something about this Irish chauffeur and his adventurous offer was very appealing, perhaps because it was all such a breath of fresh air after Matthew's numerous incidental encounters with the stuck-up Crawleys. "What kind of music will it be?" he asked.

"Ragtime, they're American musicians going back to America! Everyone'll be dancing! It'll be great! You have to come!" Branson's eyes flicked to the rusty clock on the wall. "Damn, I have to go, got a meeting with the fellow servants in five." He hopped off of his stool.

Matthew knocked back the last of his beer and then got to his feet as well. "So, what time is this concert tonight?"

Branson's eyes sparkled in the dim light. "Nine o'clock," he said in a raised voice as an argument broke out in a corner of the pub. "Promise me you'll be there."

"And I can invite anyone I want?" Matthew enquired hesitantly. The question escaped his lips and the idea entered his mind without his consent.

"Anyone," Branson said. His eyes flicked to the clock again. He reached out and shook Matthew's hand in that sturdy way that was so typically Irish. "It's been nice talking to you now, Crawley. See you this evening."

"See you this evening," Matthew echoed and he watched as Tom Branson weaved his way through the people with their coarse brown clothes and unshaven jaws. He watched until he couldn't see him any longer and his figure was swallowed up by the smoke.

* * *

Mary quickly dressed herself, having spent more time than she would have liked to admit going through all her clothes, only to find that practically none of them were that level of casual without losing that level of elegance. Eventually, she settled on a long skirt and white blouse, good for the warm evening and hopefully good for...whatever it was that she'd been invited to. The whole thing was preposterous really, her eloping in the middle of the night – those were certainly the words Granny would use – with this middle-class lawyer from Manchester, going to unknown parts of the ship, and making choices she would live to regret. But at least they weren't passive choices.

The knock on the door came entirely unexpectedly and the unwanted guest entered before Mary could do so much as blink. Thus Sybil caught her sister in front of the mirror, her hands on her hips, inspecting the outfit she'd flung together, and Sybil could not control her laughter.

"Goodness me, Mary," she exclaimed between breaths, "you do look positively ill!"

"Sybil," Mary hissed, moving towards the door with the intention of ushering her sister out as quickly as possible, "what are you doing here? I'm seasick and cannot come to dinner, do you understand?"

The giggles kept on bubbling from Sybil's lips. "Oh, I see that perfectly well. You're perfectly incapable of coming to dinner. I see that now."

"Darling, this isn't funny," Mary said briskly. "This isn't the least bit funny. You mustn't tell anyone about this." Sybil, however, only continued to giggle and Mary, exasperated, clutched at her younger sister's shoulders. "Do you hear me? Do you promise that you won't tell a soul?"

"What would I tell them?" Sybil replied, smiling. "I'd have nothing to tell them. Really, Mary, I can't keep my promise unless you say where you're going." By the end of the sentence, she'd burst out laughing again.

Mary raised a hand to her forehead. "Sybil, this is _not _funny! Please go and leave me be." The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eight thirty, half an hour to go.

Suddenly, Sybil looked at her very seriously, the smile completely wiped from her face. "No, Mary, I won't leave," she tried to sound stern, but had never quite managed to get the tone just right. "Please tell me where you're going."

"Darling–" Mary sighed.

But Sybil heard the denial in her sister's voice before the words were spoken. "Please tell me," she broke in, "please do. I'd like to come with you!"

Mary's eyes widened and she stared at the young girl in disbelief. The courage that Sybil had would never cease to surprise her. After a pause, she exclaimed, "Don't be absurd! No one's going anywhere–"

"But you clearly–"

"I'm staying right here in my room. I don't know who put that atrocious thought into your mind, how you got away from dinner so early or why you came–"

"I was worried about you!" Sybil protested.

"Well, there's nothing to be worried about," Mary replied curtly. "Now darling, please–"

"I'll tell Edith!" Sybil cried all of a sudden, again trying for that tone of sternness, but in vain.

Still, it was enough to make Mary stop short. "You wouldn't dare," she said slowly.

Sybil shrugged. "Why wouldn't I?" Now that she sensed she had her sister where she wanted to have her (_what manipulative thoughts!_ she reprimanded herself), she went on more urgently, "I do want to go with you, Mary. I really do. I want a break from all of this as well."

"What break? What are you talking about?"

"Let me come with you, please!"

Mary took a deep breath. "Fine." And no sooner had the word left her mouth or Sybil lunged forward to hug her sister so tightly that corsets really were no match. "But you must go and get changed immediately," Mary continued once she'd been released.

"Get changed?"

"Yes," Mary said without bothering to explain. It simply didn't feel right to go to whatever this Matthew Crawley had arranged in clothing that would betray them instantaneously. "But, darling, what _will _we tell the others about your absence?!"

Sybil smiled. "Not to worry. I'm here at your bedside and no one need know that we aren't _truly _here. We'll lock the doors, both the main one and the one to Patrick's room. It'll seem like you don't want to be disturbed."

"Goodness," Mary said with a laugh, "you're awfully efficient."

Sybil's eyes sparkled with a particular sort of audacious glow that Mary wasn't sure she liked. "I'll be ready in five minutes," Sybil said. "Why are you dressed as though we're going to war?"

Mary laughed beside herself. "Just go."

Young Sybil dashed towards the door, one hand clutching at her gown, one reaching for the handle, but even once she was out in the hall, she poked her head back around the corner and frowned. "Mary?"

Mary lifted her head. "Yes?"

"Where exactly are we going?"

Now it was Mary's turn to smile. "You know, darling, I haven't the slightest idea."

* * *

Although the evening was a pleasant one, it was less warm than she'd predicted, and she hurried across the deck with her arms wrapped around her body, laughter and music coming up to taunt her. She shuddered and cursed herself for being so stupid as to think that she might enjoy herself in this fashion, that Matthew Crawley, the Manchester lawyer, could be the remedy for all her life's boredom, simply because everyone else disapproved of him – save Sybil of course, the darling girl.

Mary sensed him before she saw him. At least, she thought she sensed him. The other possible explanation was that she was going mad at last. But she swore she felt the deck dip under his weight. She swore she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. And she stopped, taken aback by these thoughts. He had not seen her yet. He had his back to her and his hands in his pockets, and seemed to be humming a tune. She'd never heard a man hum a tune like that, so carelessly, so indifferently, and it was a shame he could not value the freedom of being able to hum any tune he wanted. It was a shame he could not value such things.

He also sensed her before he saw her. Those eyes on his back, how could he not feel them? It would take a fool not to feel them, burning through his jacket, and his shirt, and boring holes through his skin. Such impassive eyes. He turned. His eyes were not nearly as impassive.

Matthew opened his mouth to speak but she beat him to it. "I see now that it would be impossible to write something new of that nature at such short notice."

He looked at her, confused, and still hadn't quite grasped her meaning when she was already speaking again, "And I thank you for having provided me with a sample of your work. You are very talented, and I hope whomever the poem was intended for did appreciate it."

Matthew blinked, took a moment, and finally it dawned upon him what she meant. "Ah yes," he cleared his throat, "I hope so, too."

At that moment, Sybil rounded the corner, out of breath, and when she saw them, she skidded to a halt to straighten out her skirt. "So sorry to keep you waiting!" she managed. Having arranged her clothing, she said, "Cousin Matthew," and gave him her hand and laughed.

He, on the contrary, kissed her hand and frowned. "You–" Matthew started, wild blue eyes focused on Mary.

"Apologies," Mary said with a shrug. "I didn't have a choice."

"Is there anyone else?" he stammered. He hadn't even expected Lady Mary to come, let alone her sister!

"Good God, no!" Mary laughed.

"Your secret's safe with me," Sybil said uncertainly, embarrassed now.

"It's not a secret!" Mary retorted. "Is it, Mr Matthew?" she went on with raised eyebrows.

"Not in the least," Matthew said. "And you're welcome to join. The more, the merrier." Now, finally, his expression brightened again.

"I do apologise," Sybil persisted as they started to descend into the depths of the ship.

"Please don't." Matthew smiled at her and she smiled back at him, and apologised no more. _So unlike Mary,_ he thought to himself.

"Where are we going?" Sybil asked him breathlessly.

"It's a surprise," was all he answered. Mary's heart fell at this response. She had never much liked surprises. And as Matthew led them by the maids' and valets' dining room, through blindingly white hallways, and down steps that became dirtier and dirtier beneath their feet, Mary's heart fell ever further. Before long, the bannister turned from mahogany to steel beneath Sybil's gloved fingers.

At one point, Mary was walking by his side, and Sybil's ceaseless stream of enthusiasm had been stifled.

"I didn't think you would come," he said softly to her.

"Why did you invite me?" she asked loudly of him.

Matthew grimaced, but Sybil didn't seem to be paying attention. "I cannot say. Why did you come?"

"I always come when invited," she replied, "it's a habit of mine."

* * *

The pianist had his hands crossed this way and that, was reclining on a table, and was playing the piano while somehow managing to get drinks poured down his throat. The cellist couldn't keep his instrument still, twirling it with such speed that it was dizzying to watch, and the thing was so battered it was a miracle it still could be played upon. The violinist had a knack for jumping up and down, using the broken ends of his strings to scratch the side of his head, and utilizing his bow to lift lady's skirts.

In general, it seemed lady's skirts were capable of lifting themselves, not to mention their blouses, left skilfully (un)buttoned so that when they leaned forward, which they did quite often, the view was magnificent. Beer stained the men's sleeves, razor burns the throats of those who bothered to take care of themselves, and country mud was permanently caked not only to their boots, but also to their hair.

The bar was a custom-made one. Tables and chairs and crumbling carpets had been slung together to support massive, splintering crates, and to form the most vulgarly efficient pub in the whole world. All had been positioned in such a way that mugs could most easily be handed or, more accurately, be thrown at the customers, and beer could flow freely from the edges of the tables straight into people's mouths.

The furniture for this construction had come from the centre of the room where the space had been cleared specially for the people drunk enough and gay enough to want to dance. Although, Mary had to admit, they did know how to dance. They moved to the music at least, not just to the steps, as she and her sisters and all of her relations had learned to. But this minor point of interest was instantly eclipsed by the fact that, not five metres to her right, a man was busy exploring a woman in ways Mary had not thought possible up until now.

The three of them stood by the entrance and Mary was seized by the sudden urge to cover Sybil's eyes and take her far away from there, if it were not for the fact that that dreadful lawyer was positioned between them. That dreadful lawyer, Matthew, swallowed, stared, and knew not what to think. He scratched his head and finally, he spluttered, "I'm sorry, truly, I did not know–"

But then a voice cut through all the shouting, and the sounds of breaking glass, and the swinging ragtime music. "Crawley!" And there was no way out.

* * *

_A/N: If you haven't put this story on alert yet, now might be a good time..._

_Next time: Someone hits their head - literally. Someone makes a bad word pun. And Matthew and Mary find themselves partners in crime._

_P.S. I've decided that sometimes, during the waits between chapters, I'll be posting previews on my Tumblr blog, 221baker-street. It'll all be tagged under "Ship of Dreams", in case you're interested. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think!_


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